As a child, the moods would often break in an outburst of disobedience – like the summer that had created his reputation. As an adult, they usually drove him to a frenzy of work. Tony would move a mountain of rock tomorrow.
The cause this time was obvious. Tony’s world had been reeling for two weeks. Only loyalty to Aunt Mary had forced him to pursue marriage to a lady who already bored him.
Jon shuddered, imagining Miss Vale’s future. Tony would never deliberately hurt anyone, but she would not enjoy living with a man who had never wanted her. No matter how kind he tried to be, she would know the truth. And since his benevolence would include protecting her from the society that loathed him, she would remain isolated.
Not that Tony was thinking that far ahead. After finally pushing himself into concluding the distasteful business, fate had stepped in, postponing it yet again. He would be reeling from frustration, from fear that the delay would threaten him with exposure, and from new doubts about marrying Miss Vale.
Refusing a serving of cabbage, Jon chewed on a piece of beef.
He wished he knew how to help Tony through these dark periods, but he’d had no success in twenty-three years of trying. At least Miss Merideth would force him back to the house tomorrow before he was too exhausted to move.
Tony’s youthful disobedience had created only minor trouble, some of which he’d helped cover up. But this penchant for overwork raised a fear Jon had lived with for ten years. The day he’d discovered it had been the most frightening of his life.
He’d awakened early that morning, overwhelmed by a powerful urge to visit Tony, who was excavating a small villa a day’s ride from Linden Park. Dismissing it as nonsense, he had gone about his business. But by noon, the feeling was too strong to ignore. Somehow, he knew Tony was in trouble.
It was midnight when he’d reached the inn to find that Tony hadn’t returned. Dawn was breaking by the time he had located the site, illuminating Tony’s unconscious body sprawled in a trench, a shovel still clutched in his hand, his brow feverish from the night air. He’d remained delirious for days. Even after he recovered, he never explained why he’d nearly worked himself to death. But Jon knew. He’d found an eight-page rant from Uncle Thomas scattered on the floor when he had hauled Tony’s limp body up to his room…
“Will you join me in the drawing room this evening?” asked Miss Merideth, interrupting Jon’s memories.
“Not tonight.” Tony emptied his wineglass. “I want to get an early start tomorrow.”
“Retiring is an excellent idea,” Jon agreed, though manners made him offer an arm to Miss Merideth.
Tony was already mounting the stairs when they reached the hall. Miss Merideth’s hand prevented him from following.
“Miss Vale will be confined to bed for a day or two,” she said woodenly. “You would enjoy a tour of the estate tomorrow. We have been neglecting you.”
“Not at all. Do not change your plans on my account. Ton-Torwell will need your assistance.”
“He is quite accustomed to working alone.”
“But he should not—” He stopped, unable to mention Tony’s mood without revealing why the day had been so frustrating.
How could he discourage her? Miss Merideth was a conscientious companion, who would do whatever she could to entertain her employer’s guests. From her perspective, he was the higher ranking, and thus her most pressing problem. The only way he could convince her to care for Tony was to disappear.
“I appreciate your offer, Miss Merideth,” he said, dropping her arm as he faced her. “And I will enjoy a tour another day. But I will not be here tomorrow. I had meant to call on a friend while I was in the area. Miss Vale’s injury gives me the opportunity to do so without insult. I will return in three days.” That would give Tony time to complete his business.
“But—” Her face changed from surprise to resignation. “I wish you a pleasant journey.”
“Thank you. Please see that Torwell does not work overlong while I am gone.” Without waiting to hear the question hovering on her lips, he turned upstairs.
Giving Simms the job of relaying his sudden change of plans to Tony, he climbed into bed. How far must he go to be certain that the Vale House staff would not hear news of him?
Chapter Eight
Tony exchanged his spade for a trowel, gently scraping soil from around the latest stone. Miss Vale had not left her room since falling four days ago. It had taken him two days to work off the frustration raised by the collapse of his plans. Turning up nothing but broken flue tiles and bits of brick hadn’t helped. They were digging through a hypocaust, but there was no sign of the floor that had once overlaid it.
He shook his head. This particular stone had not been worked. Heaving it aside, he drove the spade into the ground.
Jon’s absence was just as frustrating. Simms had immediately reported the change of plans. Dear innocent Jon. He had overlooked one important point in his scheming. The honorable Tony Linden would hardly leave his valet behind when paying a call. But disappearing for a few days was a good idea. They could all relax once Linden’s reputation departed. So he had sent Jon and Simms to London for the special license. By the time they returned, he should have settled with Miss Vale.
His other frustration had been losing a day of digging. He’d enjoyed the festival, of course, but an honest look at the future showed that he had no guarantee of access to this site once Sir Winton discovered his identity. The baronet would probably disown his daughter for thwarting him. So he would have preferred spending the day investigating the questions teasing his mind.
Perhaps Miss Vale would consider staying here awhile after marriage so he could continue work, though that would mean digging into winter and risking criminal charges if Sir Winton discovered him.
Stupid!
He snorted, admitting that the idea was impossible. Unless he took possession of the trust before the month was up, his parents must leave Linden Park.
So he must settle with Miss Vale. But she had not yet appeared. Miss Merideth swore she was improving, but needed further rest. Supposedly she would join them for dinner tonight. If Jon had encountered no trouble on the road – and no opposition from the Archbishop’s staff – he might also be back.
Miss Merideth leaned over her trench, drawing his eyes to her delectable backside. Keeping his hands to himself was becoming more difficult every day – which was why he was angling his trenches farther from hers.
Not now
, he reminded his baser instincts as heat stirred his groin. Cursing himself for suggesting she wear pantaloons, he sauntered closer. “Find something?”
“Not really.” She sounded discouraged. “Another chunk of the cliff.”
He helped her dig it out. A jumble of broken bricks lay beneath it.
“Another support pillar for the floor?”
“Exactly, though more of this one survived,” he murmured, making a quick sketch before pulling the pieces loose.
“This is the same color as the tiles,” she said, turning one in her hand.
“Probably from the same kiln.” He scanned the slope, his eyes narrowing when they reached the stakes marking the debris fan. “Brick. I’ve been—”
“Look!” she interrupted.
A flash of blue caught the sunlight as she pulled another brick loose. She grabbed a trowel, scraping away soil in a sudden frenzy.
“Easy, Miss Merideth. There is no need to rush. It isn’t going anywhere.” But his heart had speeded up. He jumped into the trench, helping her deepen it around the find, barely noticing when his arm brushed hers.
An hour later, they collapsed in exhaustion. His excitement had risen and fallen too many times to count.
“Definitely mosaic tiles,” he said, poking through a mound of colored chips.
“But none are attached, though some of the bricks show traces of mortar.” She picked up a handful of chips. “So many colors. The picture must have been beautiful. Too bad the floor shattered in the slide.”
“I’m not sure it did.” He pointed at the tiles. “Not only are they loose, but they are all square.”
“Square?”
He nodded. “Artists kept stocks of colored stone trimmed into square rods. They sliced the rods into tiles when they prepared for a job. Further shaping and polishing occurred on site as the tiles were set.”
“Do you mean these were not yet set?”
“I suspect so. Perhaps this room belonged to a mosaic artist hired to decorate a floor or repair an existing one. If the building was still under construction, that would explain why we’ve found only the hypocaust.”
“You are contradicting yourself. No artist would live or work in a room without a floor, nor would he be called in before the floor was laid. And I doubt that a villa this large was built at one time. Perhaps this was a new wing. If the artist was working elsewhere, the slide could have carried his supplies here.”
“Excellent points,” he admitted, recalling the thought he’d set aside an hour ago. “And they bolster the feeling that I’ve been approaching this puzzle wrong from the beginning.”
“How?” Her eyes radiated surprise.
“All the other sites I’ve excavated were abandoned, so no personal items remained. Building materials had been appropriated for other projects until only the foundations were left. Centuries of dirt and debris had buried them, but they were basically intact.”
“I see what you mean,” she said slowly. “If this site was buried by a slide, then even the foundations would have been damaged or destroyed.”
“True, but that is not what I meant. A site that was buried in a sudden catastrophe is richer in artifacts than an abandoned one. Like Minerva. But it also means that the walls remained, mixed with the foundation stones. Brick. While the Romans used stone for temples and large public buildings, smaller ones were built of brick atop a stone foundation – which is why abandoned sites never have walls. Brick is easy to transport and can be reused in other structures.”
“What is your point?”
“If you shatter brick and tile into pieces the size we see here, they look very much alike. In fact, brick breaks more easily than tile. It is not fired. But if the rubble is mostly brick, then I’ve greatly overestimated the size of the roof.”
“So the building may have been small? But what does that do to your theory that the entire clearing was paved? We’ve found remnants of the hypocaust in several places.”
“True, but they may have paved large areas of courtyard. What I’m more concerned about is this absence of floors. If the slide came down hard enough to destroy them, then we might be better off exploring the debris fan.”
“Why? So far we’ve found nothing but shards there.” She pointed toward the temple. “Minerva was undamaged, so the slide could not have destroyed everything. We might have better luck starting at the temple and working back toward the villa.”
“That would take forever. Perhaps we should expand trenches along known foundations.”
“Which will also take time. If this was a new wing, then the original villa lies between here and the temple. Why not start at the midpoint? Maybe we’ll turn up the entrance.”
He climbed out of the trench, staring from the cliff to the debris fan. “That is a possibility, but I think we need a new approach entirely. Let’s start at the beginning. I’ve never liked all that debris to the east. It is not in line with any hill, so something must have deflected at least part of the slide. A heavy stone building might have done it, but I cannot imagine brick holding up long enough.”
“It would depend on how much of the cliff came down,” she countered. “Maybe this was a series of small falls instead of one big one.”
“Small ones might pile against the walls until they finally buckled, but the force of the collapse would hardly destroy floors. Nor would it sweep possessions away from the site.”
“The owner might have had time to salvage his belongings.”
Running his hands through his hair, he paced the clearing. “How does a slide behave? I’ve been assuming that the cliff crumbled, flowed into the valley, and swept everything away, but I’ve never actually seen a slide. Let’s try an experiment.” He stopped next to a three-foot-deep trench they had dug several days earlier. Rain had softened its walls, making them unstable. Portions had already collapsed, piling dirt, clods, and pebbles in the bottom.
“These look like the talus slopes at the foot of the cliff,” he said, pointing. “What will happen in the next slide?”
“The new debris will make the mound higher.”
“Let’s see…” He crumbled the top of the wall, letting dirt tumble down in a series of small falls.
She nodded. “The mound grows larger with each fall.”
“But there is not enough material to spread much beyond the original mound,” he said, frowning. “And if we use the same scale as the cliff, the villa would have been over here.” He pointed to a spot near the other side of the trench. So the entire cliff must have failed.”
He loosened more of the bank with his trowel, starting several inches back from the edge, careful to keep the chunk intact until he had freed a large piece of the face.
It fell as a block, shattering when it hit the mound. This time the soil did not pile up. Debris rolled in a wave across the trench floor, leaving the mound lower than before.
“Interesting,” Miss Merideth said, crouching to examine the slide. “Not only did it sweep earlier falls along with it, but it did not spread uniformly.”
Excitement tingled, as it always did when he solved a puzzle. “When it started spreading, the front edge of the wave was the deepest, which would cause serious damage to anything it hit – like the villa. It must have shattered the walls, rolling and crunching everything as it swept toward the river.”
“But not everywhere. This is what I meant by lacking uniformity. Wherever the front of the wave was thick, it spread far from the impact point, yet in other places, it hardly cleared the original mound. Look at the edge of the flow. This tongue passes your hypothetical villa, while only inches away, the flow stopped well short. So just because we found no floor here, we cannot conclude that all the floors are gone.”